


Painting Rain and other short stories

by Effenay



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fable-like shorts, Fantasy, Life in general, Other, Real Life, Slice of Life, So is the amount of tags I've got in this crate, Some anime/manga inspired possibly, Summary may change, some romance maybe, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effenay/pseuds/Effenay
Summary: Tales of life in its reflections. Tales in which we share in the everyday life. Some are fables, some just scenes in the corners of one's mind, and some stories hold no meaning other than just by the spur of the moment.





	1. Painting Rain

In the midst of a clamour of individuals, the rain sputtered against the gallery windows. Two or three individuals gazed at the darkened windows; watered by earth's healing tears.

"Such good timing," one woman remarked, "To see an art that speaks of the weather."

"Not to mention," another added, "Its raining cats and dogs."

"The artist did say that she set the date specifically in the rainy season," one man smiled.

"It’s a shame that she couldn't make it here to see it," the woman said after a long pause.

The three nodded with rue amusement.

The crowd of adults chattered throughout the gallery space; criticizing, admonishing and applauding at the collection of artworks. An adolescent boy of thirteen stood amidst the criticizing crowd, losing track of the adults' bickering. Overwhelmed by the noise, the boy slipped away from the crowd, only to find himself in a dimly lit area.

"Too much for the night?" an elderly man who sat on a bench asked in a friendly manner.

"To be honest, it’s suffocating to be in a crowd full of critics," the boy scratched his head.

"Artists, curators, collectors; the whole lot of them seemed to have forgotten the significance of what art truly is," the man smiled.

"What _is_ art, anyway?" the boy scoffed. "What part of those ridiculous sculptures over there is art? There is nothing there that I found appealing. Although there are a one or two artworks that seemed okay, by it’s just not good enough."

The elderly man chuckled in amusement, pushing his hat to his forehead; his eyes pointed to the wall. The boy followed his gaze and turned around to see a row of paintings that hung against the dimly lit wall. One was the image of a girl in the rain; crouching before a small plant. The painting next to it was a hand that held an umbrella before the girl. The final painting depicted the girl in the arms of a man; sobbing as she embraced him back, protected from the rain by the umbrella that he held.

"Have you seen this piece before?" the man said cheerily.

The boy shook his head. "No, but what is it about?"

"It’s a story of a girl who lived in the rain," the man explained. "She lived in the rain for so long that she would die if there was no rain. One day, a man who knew of her condition, decided to make her feel what is was like to be sheltered away from the rain, despite the dangers of her health. And so, he offered her his umbrella and for a short amount of time, held her close as she finally felt that happiness that she had never felt in her time of the rain."

"That's," the boy paused, "That is sad. That is very sad."

"Ah," the man smiled. "It is a tragedy indeed, but the truth is, this is a good end for the girl."

"How is dying, anything good?" the boy asked.

"Dying, my boy, is sad," the man answered. "But what makes it tragic is if we spent our days without happiness and fulfilment. We all have a role to play at times, but we were never meant to have a role to live in the rain for the majority of our time."

"What is that supposed to mean?" boy scoffed. "Mate, I can't understand a word you just said."

"I wonder," the man chuckled. "If you lived this long, (pointing his thumb at himself) I think you will understand."

The boy shook his head as scoffed at the man's words, but returned his gaze towards the painting. He then turned back to the man whose eyes glistened in the dim light. The old man rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and placed a pair of dark spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

"Many curators said that the piece wasn't complex enough to deserve at gallery viewing," the man said with a croak in his voice. "I'm sure, that she'll be proud to know that her work was not in vain."

"… Your wife?" the boy gently asked.

"My daughter," the man answered with a sad smile.


	2. Poisonous Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The way that conflict is resolved determines whether we heal and move forward”  
> A short imaginary piece I wrote for English in 2013.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short piece for an English Oral dabbling with the theme we were covering on known as "encountering conflict"  
> Here was what I wrote as an intention statement (man I cannot believe I actually wrote this really):
> 
> Inspired by The Kite Runner’s character Hassan, I based my narrative on my own experiences and recreated a character that acts as a female counterpart of Hassan set in the school yard, but not necessarily making it Hassan himself. Here, I expanded on the emotions and the events that led to a resolution to demonstrate my understanding of the Prompt.  
> Because I my target audience high-schoolers, I used simplified language to make it more relatable. For my oral presentation, I would use a slow and steady pace in presenting my speech; hastening the areas where the character’s emotions intensifies. By doing this, I could make this piece become a powerful presentation.

Within a short period of two days, I knew that had to be wiser and settle everything. We then became friends again; but no longer have I been patient. I assimilated distance as I have become invisible to her eyes. No longer have I seen the jewel of her heart. Genuine smiles soured into burdened frowns. Hopeful thoughts churned into doubts. I may have reconciled by word of mouth; but my heart relived these scars. I hid them from her. I did not express the pit of my emotions on that day. _If only she knew, if only she knew_ I wished to myself, _If only she knew how hurt I am now._ Like a slow poison of venom, these black-stained thoughts spread throughout my system; giving me less room to grow as I am left behind to carry her seeds that persisted my morality.

_“It is not fair, it is not fair,_

_If we never met I would not have my share_

_I would be happy as a tree;_

_Ignoring all who hurt me_

_And all the while I was once til I heard her story”_

I could still remember how it all started. Hands trembled violently with a crooked back and a pale face. _Why should I be afraid?_ I challenged my emotions as I walked along the corridor. By the mere presence of her, I forget those happy days as friends and recall the images of her back turned to me and spewing out her emotions in two words: _“Get lost.”_

Just by the mere two words had sent me to tears. Long ago, another had done the same; spewing out words of malice and cruelty to others and to me. Her gang avoided me like a plague; planting her seeds to another person’s mind that I was not worthy of being a friend. It happened between me and another person. This was long ago as a child; but it was no different from now.

It was all a misunderstanding. I thought she would do better than to make such a petty conclusion. I would never do anything to make her devastated. How could she believe that? How could she believe that I would hide the truth when I only found out what had happened at the time when I she was not there at the time? In the end of it all, history repeats itself; I would be affected even though I was not responsible for all of this.

My eyes fell to the floor, with raw emotions of anger, betrayal and fear challenging my barriers. I never felt this sensation since I was nine years old. There is a limit to every person’s tolerance; and yet not all barriers are the true limit to someone’s capability. I felt her cold gaze follow my every move, condescending my every being. _“How dare she betray me?”_ or _“I can’t believe that she hid the truth from me”_ I guessed her thoughts as I clenched my books till it trembled.

My nerves shook the very core of me. I held back my tears long enough. My mouth quavered at the thought of speaking. A surge of a sharp pain came over me. I fell to the floor as the pages fluttered like leaves. _“Help me”_ I yelled inside of me, _“Somebody help me!”_  My vision blurred by the acid tears, crying out like a child. _“Help me! Help me! Help me!”_

It was then when her seeds began to grow. Seeds of sadness, seeds of pain; seeds of her negative emotions began to grow. I looked back at the time when she revelled to me her weaknesses and her experiences. I could still remember how her words made me happy; how her words made me sad. Compassion tugged me in my heart as I wanted to set her free. But now her words evolved into seeds; seeds that cannot be sown without an open wound. I remembered how I fought these seeds of doubt and selfishness; I had fought these seeds of pride. But now I am wounded; mortally scarred. I have fallen weak in resistance. These seed were sown at the very heart of me.

I looked back at the memories of my first friend’s rejection made me learn to be kinder to others; for no one wants to be rejected. But it was not only for others, but it was also for me as I longed for acceptance within society. But the burden of my guilt was less than the betrayal of both friends. I looked up to them as I had loved them, only to be misunderstood by childish reasons.


End file.
